


oh...um...er, aren’t you Damian Wayne?

by bluestxrsbats



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Crush at First Sight, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Robin, F/M, Gotham Academy, Reader-Insert, Teenager Damian Wayne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-06-09 23:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19486087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestxrsbats/pseuds/bluestxrsbats
Summary: Reader is a student at Gotham academy, on a bursary. To say that they don’t fit in is an understatement of the century. It wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t keep on meeting Damian Wayne at really inopportune moments, when they look like an absolutely weirdo.Ah well. Hopefully he doesn’t notice, right?





	1. First meeting, god forbid.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoping this will be about 10 chapters. I will post as much as possible, but it will probably be more sporadic than I wish it to be.

Gotham academy was for rich kids. It was obviously immediately from the golden filagree gates and sparkling black cars that littered the driveway like polished flies. The neatly cut grass always had clumps of students dressed in their fine uniforms lounging, some sharing the odd expensive cigarette whilst talking about exotic holiday destinations in obnoxiously loud voices.

The students who walked the halls had every possible affordable luxury a finger tip distance away. They were used to private planes, wads of cash and bottles of champagne lives. It was mirrored in the unusual accents to the already pricey uniform, the superior attitude that oozed off of them like their overwhelming perfumes and colognes, in the calligraphed writing in each end of term letter.

You had been very lucky, very lucky indeed. Gotham Academy may have been a haven for stuck up snobs, but the education was excellent. There was never a lesson that passed when you weren’t captivated and intrigued to research further once it was over. For you, a self confessed nerd - something that you were proud of - it was an absolute dream. Not even your wildest wishes could have foreseen this gift. Your uncle, a recluse of a man that you had never met, had somehow found out that you had a talent for Physics that neither of your parents had the money to nurture, and opted to help.

By helping, he meant sending you to one of the best schools in the whole of the country.

You had arrived at the imposing gates by private school bus three months ago to the day. It was no exaggeration that you had never, ever seen a building quite so old yet so beautiful. A kind, but rather airy prefect by the name of Clemsie Parks-West had met you just inside the gates, rolling back on her heels with almost tangible excitement.

She had never done this sort of thing before, she told you with an almost nervous grin. Clemsie was surprisingly intelligent on closer inspection, something which you should have guessed, but it didn’t stop her from pointing and giving you more information about past and present students that littered the halls than where first lesson was situated and the location of the cafeteria.

Flicking her long blonde hair over her shoulder, she had stopped abruptly three quarters around the tour for no reason, and you had almost ended up falling on top of her. Blushing profusely, you had apologised, but the girl had shut you up with finger to the lips. You still remember it to the day, the way her voice took on a semblance of a dreamy quality as she gestured at the imposing figure of a boy standing mere feet away.

“That,” she whispered, “that’s Damian Wayne, son of Bruce Wayne...you know, the billionaire. I have to admit, I can see why everyone thinks he’s handsome. Personally, I think the boy’s a bit misinterpreted. I think, yeah, he’s in your year, so you’ll...”

He had been walking towards you both, shoulders tense, glancing to the left as if hesitating to see if someone he knew was coming. You had been overwhelmed with pity for the boy as you saw the trail of girls and boys alike following him like lost puppies. He was evidently exasperated, stalking with purpose down the corridor.

When you had looked at his face, the breath had almost left your lungs. The teenager was devastatingly handsome, even with a scowl marring his features his whole being was truly magnetic. You felt pathetic, but the boy’s burnished skin and dark hair, long at the top, had made your fingers itch to run them through it. That thought, you remembered vividly still, had positively made you want to puke; the fact being that you hadn’t talked to him yet, and he looked the sort that lived under a shadow with a temper hotter than molten metal. The sort that would be an absolute entitled prince.

And then the worst possible thing happened. A burly athlete had shouldered you from the left as the Wayne boy walked past you on the right and you pitched sideways.

Right into him.

With reflexes that were far too quick to be normal, he had caught you before you both went sprawling across the floor. Long fingers clasped around your arms let you go almost instantly, and you dropped with all the grace of a brick to the wooden floor. The resounding thwack of your head hitting the cherry wood had made the students around start tittering with barely concealed laughter, and a low groan had found its way out your throat.

It was your first day, and you’d already made a fool out of yourself.

Stumbling to you feet and brushing the invisible lint off the starched skirt, you had looked up to meet Damian Wayne’s face, intent on apologising. Instead, you were met with a sharply cut face, annoyance bleeding into every feature. His ornery green eyes had stared down at you - after all, he was almost a head height taller than you - anger barely concealed in them.

“I...oh...um...er, aren’t you Damian Wayne?”

You had wanted to slap yourself. Then, maybe, throw yourself off Gotham’s breakwater as soon as possible. No, you couldn’t have started with ‘I’m so sorry’ or ‘My apologies.’ No, it had to be something so totally weird and unasked for that the boy - who was already emotionally constipated by the looks of it - was going to have no idea what you were on about.

Rolling your eyes to yourself, you had started again. “I’m sorry about that.”

The Wayne boy had just stared at you curiously, as if you were an interesting new creature that had just been discovered in some far away lagoon rainforest. The intensity of his stare coupled with with piercing brightness of his eyes in contrast with his tanned skin meant that, against your violation, your cheeks started to flush.

And then, just like that, as if someone had clicked their fingers, Damian Wayne stormed past you. Deliberately, he had knocked his broad shoulder against yours, scoffing and muttering something about ‘clumsy chits’ as he passed in a whirlwind of really bloody nice cologne.

Clemsie had then caught you, glancing at you with a hint of something not quite discernable. Her rather pretty, freckled nose was scrunched up in concentration.

“You suffer from anxiety, don’t you.”

It was a simple fact, one that rocked you to the core. You had always been a nervous child, and that had spread the older you got, morphing into an almost crippling anxiety. It was only recently before you joined Gotham Academy that you had really got a hand on it, not allowed it to consume you; for a long time your parents had wondered if this fear was going to manifest into something meta human, but alas, it was just your genes working against you to make you into a nervous wreck. Back then, you had just got used to being independent and talking to people like a normal person, and Clemsie had picked up on it instantly.

“Was it really that obvious?” You had shoved your face into your hands.

Smiling, the girl had patted you on the shoulder. “It’s alright. My mum’s a psychologist, and I read all her books.”

With familiarity that I had never expressed with someone before, I turned to give Clemsie a look that signified that I believed not one ounce of what she had just said.

“Well, that as well as it was a teensy bit obvious by the way you stuttered. I’m sorry, Y/N. But it wasn’t that bad. Damian Wayne is a bit of a douchebag, if I’m honest, so don’t worry.”

Part of you had been worried, though. You knew instinctively, unfortunately, that this wouldn’t be the last embarrassment involving the Wayne boy.

And you had been 100% correct.


	2. Coffee, oh coffee, why do you cause problems!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian and the reader have another rather embarrassing run in, however this is one that they can fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos or comments if you like this story. 
> 
> Thank you for reading :)

Clemsie was a firm friend after that. You’d sit with her at lunch, talking about the day and she would gossip to you with what she had heard as a prefect.

After that, you’d had four more run ins with Damian Wayne. Unfortunately for you, each had been the product of something that you couldn’t control, such a slippy piece of floor or a person in a rush. It seemed that the world was determined to make you do something utterly embarrassing in front of the Wayne boy.

He was in most of your lessons; sitting at the back silently almost like he wasn’t quite there. Occasionally he would contribute, and it was always intelligent and thought provoking ideas. Yet he would speak them in such a bored tone that it gave you the sort of feeling that he believed himself above everyone else.

You had noticed that he excelled in art, his drawings and paintings vibrant and exquisite in a way that others weren’t. Personally, you enjoyed the class too, although preferring to do small scale, detailed sketches that suited your perfectionist personality more. No one ever saw them, you were far too protective of the sketchbook than most, scared that people would laugh or judge them. 

The Wayne boy seemed to hold a similar idea to you. He of course had to show the large canvas paintings, but you had seen him clutch his book to his broad chest in a way that seemed as if he were almost vulnerable of people seeing a different side of him that was kept closely hidden in that book.

The second time you had accidentally confronted him had been the worst, there was no doubt. You’d been in physics, the lesson after break time, and Clemsie had shoved a scalding hot coffee cup into your hands in the pretence to look after it, and then been called off to a meeting without collecting it.

You’d decided then to not waste good coffee. Sipping it slowly, you had taken it with you to the lesson. Luckily, the teacher had taken a liking to you because you excelled in his subject, therefore he turned a blind eye to the coffee cup perched on your desk rather prominently, sending you instead a small smile when he arrived in a fluster.

Usually, you sat alone at the back of the classroom surrounded by wall displays and experiment equipment. But that day, everyone had seemed to favour the back of the classroom. Nevertheless, you headed to your normal seat, the wooden desk bleached white in areas from acid felt homely to you in a way that the rest of the perfectly put together school didn’t. 

Unfortunately, Damian was sitting next to your normal seat. Cringing, you debated moving somewhere else because, let’s face it, you couldn’t look the boy in the face without seeing what had happened last time flash neon in the forefront of your mind. Steeling yourself, you walked with the rest of the stragglers to the back. You were going to sit next to him; just because Damian Wayne decided to grace your table with his presence wasn’t going to stop you from sitting where you wanted. A silly, spoilt boy wasn’t going to prevent you doing anything!

It seemed, however, that Life had other ideas. Shoving your book bag down on the table, the Wayne boy looked up, sharp face pinched in annoyance. “You cannot sit here!”

Scoffing, you turned to look at him fully. “If anything, it’s you who can’t sit here! I usually sit at this table, so if you don’t like it, shove off.”

You weren’t going to stand for him being rude, no matter whether he was Bruce Wayne’s son or not. Trying to loom over you - and succeeding, even sitting down - he looked thoroughly bored at the threat in your words. “If you have to sit there, do not talk to me.”

“Fine, then.” That seemed to shut him up, though you could almost feel in the air around that he was far from happy at you seated next to him. His long fingers drummed against the table, the coffee in your cup slopping with the force of it.

Ignoring him, you slowly got the exercise book and textbook out of the depths of your bag. Looking around the classroom, it was strikingly obvious that you were not wealthy; the other teenagers had brand spanking new textbooks and laminated, brightly coloured notepads and gel pens. You, however, had an old book that you had ripped pages out of so that you could use it, with biros that you had salvaged from the pen pot in your parents kitchen. You had been there for three weeks by that point, and everything still made you feel as if you stuck out like a tree in a field of grass.

It was going well, fine even, until it was announced that today’s lesson was the exchanging of information that had been collected as homework. It had been great fun for you, hardly a homework researching the differences between fusion reactors and fission reactors for the Nuclear Energy section of the course. Damian Wayne’s sigh, however, reminded you that you didn’t have a willing partner. 

“Right,” you purposefully ignored his scowl, “I’ll start, considering that-“

He cut you off with a wave of his hand, dismissively. “I’m sure what you are about to say has limited usefulness. I do not settle for sub-par marks, and from what I know neither do you. Therefore, start talking about Fusion or Fission.”

Well. That wasn’t quite what you were expecting, but part of you thought his frankness was refreshing. “Right, well Fission produces two identical daughter nuclei, which...”

Surprisingly enough, the boy had pulled his weight. It was proving rather fruitful until the worst possible thing happened. Passing your table, a rather careless swish of a girl’s bag sent your coffee spilling; black coagulating liquid oozing across the page. With a pained squeak, you lifted the paper, trying desperately to wipe the stain off. The Wayne boy looked utterly flabbergasted, soon morphing into anger.

“Shit.” You said softly, following the brown mark across the page with your finger dejectedly. 

“I cannot believe it. Is there no task you can carry out without mucking it up?” He snarled at you, jabbing towards the paper with exasperation.

“It’s not my fault.” It was, after all, not fully your fault. His face told the opposite. He thumped the table once in a show of anger, before looking at you with fire behind his eyes. The boy obviously cared about his scores more than he let on.

The end of the lesson came soon after and he went to storm off. “I’m sorry, Wayne. I can type fast, it’s fine. I can redo it.”

He turned to you, fists clenched white at his sides, stark contrast to his tanned skin. Green eyes burning brightly he snapped at you. “There’s no need to. We have failed miserably, and it is your fault. Do not sit next to me again.”

His face was twisted in anger, yes, but you were rather perceptive and could see past the facade. It wasn’t only fury that shadowed his face, it was visible just as much that there was fear written across his features too. The Wayne heir was afraid of failure, though for what reason you weren’t sure. 

Surely getting a low mark would not be the end for him. As it was, Damian would never have to work a day of his life and still live comfortably. He would still have holidays, have lovely clothes and eight course dinners even if he didn’t do well at school. Failure, surely, didn’t matter for a boy like him, even if he wanted to get good grades. But it was clear as day, startlingly so, that he was fearful of it, and you felt incredibly guilty.

Therefore, you spent most of the night typing and drawing and writing a pack discussing the differences between fusion and fission. Why you were doing this for him, you weren’t really sure, but your frazzled mind made up the excuse that it was in your benefit. At six in the morning, sun peaking across the sky you had fallen asleep at your desk with materials strewn across like a bomb had exploded, but a beautifully neat pack for each of you lying on your bed.

You got in early that day, dozy and with sleep in the corner of your eyes. After finding out from the office his locker number - which took much convincing that you indeed weren’t a fan girl - you headed towards the empty hallway. With a sticky note on the front, you placed one pack in his locker on top of a pile of neatly stacked textbooks.

The guilt was much less now that you’d done that, although you gathered that he was probably the sort that wouldn’t say thank you. 

But you were surprised because, come Physics, the boy of your thoughts sat gracefully down in the seat beside you. Partially asleep, you barely registered the squeak of the chair, your head resting against the cool table in a desperate bid to try and keep you awake. A clearing of a throat made you falter, almost falling off the seat. 

Looking up, you were met by a rather sheepish Damian Wayne, fingers fiddling with each other almost subconsciously. It seemed as if he wanted to to express his gratitude, but didn’t know how. In the end, he settled on a quick nod that shocked you to the core.

Rolling his eyes at your face, he tapped the table top with his pen. “Come on, Y/LN, keep up. If you keep on staring at me with a guppy mouth I will move somewhere else.”

“Sorry,” it was instinctual, “I’m just a bit tired.”

Your words were punctured by a well timed yawn, and the boy looked guilty for a split second. “Thank you for doing that.” His words were quiet, almost inaudible, but you heard them.

The corners of your lips turned up at his words. 

Maybe Damian Wayne wasn’t that bad.


	3. sporting genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luckily for you, you can just about do sports in general. Unluckily for you, Damian Wayne keeps on watching every move you make.
> 
> Well, won’t this be interesting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos/comments :)
> 
> I’m terribly sorry for this chapter being a bit boring! I didn’t really set out with an end target for it so it’s kind of a filler chapter, I suppose. The next one will be better when I’ve actually managed to think of a better idea, I promise! :)

Sports. Technically you weren’t bad at them but you weren’t considered particularly good at them either. You were above average in things such as badminton and hockey, because that’s what you’d played at family gatherings, brushing shoulders with cousins who were rough and fast. Skill came quickly when you watched and played against people who were better than you and quite frankly, you enjoyed it. The mud in your trainers, clack of hockey sticks or the moment of flight when you just managed to hit the shuttlecock over the net and your opponent missed it.

Normal sports, you could play. You were alright at them.

However, Gotham Academy was no normal school. It didn’t have smelly changing rooms and scuffed fields, teachers that looked like they wanted nothing but to go back and sit in their offices whilst you ran four laps of the massive field in the rain. Gotham Academy did _specialised_ sports. That meant your daily physical education lesson could be gymnastics, archery, cricket, volleyball, baseball, swimming, table tennis, assorted athletics, sailing, rock climbing, rounders or even horse riding.

Hell, half of them you had only ever read about. Your old school, cooped up in a tiny plot in the centre of the city had owned only one field had only known few sports. Come rain or shine you either ran or kicked a football. To come to a place like this, where fitness was held in such high esteem, was not only daunting but bloody _terrifying_.

You’d never fired a bow and arrow before, and you seemingly were born lucky. Of _course_ , you had Archery at the end of your second week. The first two weeks you had just about survived softball, swimming, cricket and rounders. Your catching skills were applauded by the teacher which caused a few dirty looks to be thrown your way. It didn’t matter, sport wasn’t really your thing and you would back down if anyone else who was better wanted to be wicket keeper. They didn’t.

But archery? That was pushing the limits of your sporting ability.

And what was worse was that Damian-friggin-Wayne with his perfect sports ability and piercing stare was in your class. Every lesson, you could feel someone’s eyes on you, tracing your every move. It was enough to make you stumble, or lose concentration and yet you could never catch the perpetrator. Until one day, you did, and the eyes belonged to him. The Wayne boy’s face snapped away so quick that you were sure his neck must have cracked, the faint pink staining his cheeks bringing a smirk to your face at the thought of making him embarrassed.

Served him right, you had thought, for it had been his fault that you missed the ball and hit yourself in the face because you were so distracted. 

But then, it was worse knowing that it was him, because your eyes seemingly of their own accord would follow him as he ran long distance against the other boys. You would take in his every feature, roaming his face with intensity that you had no idea where it would come from. He would catch your eyes just before he passed the finish line and you would have to look away, ashamed at watching him each lap yet unable to stop.

There was just something about Damian Wayne that kept you coming back for more, and it scared you. 

He would be in front of the others - always first, you had never seen him be anything but the best - but it was always as if he was holding back, as if part of him was caged and he never let it free. Damian reminded you of an animal at the zoo, never allowing anyone to see their true ability, only a slip of themselves. You were sure he could probably fly around that track much faster, jump the long jump much longer, hit the volleyball much harder: but he didn’t.

It confused you, but then it was usually your time to do something and your concentration would once be tugged back to reality.

Timidly, you approached the woman who was leading the lesson. She was built a lot like Wonder Woman you thought absentmindedly, with her long dark hair, muscles and kind smile. The commanding gleam to her eye did nothing to settle your stomach as you watched girls and boys alike line up in what looked like perfect form. 

“Excuse me...”

She turned to look at you, eyes softening fractionally when she must have realised who you were. “Ah yes, Y/L/N. I was told that you had a...limited exposure to sports. I take it that you’ve never done archery before.”

You shook your head, feeling rather at a disadvantage. The resounding thwack of arrows into the buts was turning into a bit of a lulling rhythm which was doing nothing for your determination. Looking closely, you noticed that not many of your classmates actually hit the bullseye; few making it into the inner red and yellow rounds but generally they were all consistent in where their arrows travelled (like Ellis Reacher, for example, who you worried you would be like for she never once hit the target).

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” The lady said, patting your shoulder albeit a little awkwardly, “My colleagues have praised your aim despite the lack of nurturing, so I’m sure you will pick it up fast. Just remember to breathe in and out and relax. In fact, I know the exact way to get you started...”

To your surprise, you picked it up fairly quickly, and your aim was pretty good for a beginner. But then the inevitable happened, and the teacher, Ms Bourne - which you had to smother your laugh at because, well, she reminded you spy, a female Jason Bourne in a way - had to go and help a boy that although had the aura of capability, had almost shot another person in the foot. Evidently being rich didn’t make you good at everything.

At this point, the sense of dread filled you once more because a niggling voice told you that in fact, what happened next was going to have a lot to do with the boy that had been watching you since the beginning of the lesson.

“Wayne.” Her booming voice brooked no argument and you felt a little piece of you shrivel. It wasn’t that you hated the boy - in fact it was highly the opposite - but things were still too tentative.

And you had the awful habit of lighting up like a traffic light when he walked near you. That too. 

The Wayne heir sauntered over in a way that was assuredly natural, and very annoying. Damian did nothing to hide his scowl, or the fact that he was displeased from being interrupted. His hair was glossy in the heat - which was unfair because yours either went greasy, tangly or frizzy without fail - and his skin looked positively sinful with the light sheen of sweat on it. 

“You will help Y/L/N with her aim. With time, she might be just as good as you, Mr. Wayne. I’m sure you would like some competition, no?”

It was meant as a statement, even though phrased as a question: he would be helping you, whether he likes it or not. You highly doubted that even the son of Bruce Wayne - for all the weight that his name carried - would argue with Ms Bourne, for she really was formidable. With a roll of his green eyes, he turned towards you with all the enthusiasm of a lump of coal. 

You pulled back and fired three arrows in succession, each landing near each other in the red yellow border, just left of the bullseye.

Then, the _master_ spoke.

”Your stance is wrong. Your fingers are too far away from your cheek. You are not looking at the target.” Boredom laced his every word as if he was as happy to be doing this as you were to get up early in the morning. He had given you things to work on, despite the fact that he wasn’t glancing at you and to your knowledge, hadn’t seen you fire your arrows. The teenager was everywhere but where he was supposed to be, there beside you in physicality but not in spirit.

“But Ms. Bourne has just positioned me like that!” You were frustrated at the pompous attitude in which Damian Wayne pointed out your shortcomings without explanation. Surely he had the decency to help you instead of list things that you weren’t sure how to correct. You were an open book to any teaching that anyone would give you, but being a novice meant that you didn’t really know how to correct it.

“If you’re so talented then, show me how it’s done.”

With one swift movement he had grasped your bow and fired. It was effortless, sailing straight into the bullseye with a thwack that had your cheeks flushing brightly at the ease of it. He turned to face you then - radiating ‘self entitled git’ - eyebrow raised in a way that wasn’t taunting, as if he were simply just proving a point. You noticed then that he didn’t show off, he could have most likely fired without looking and still got a perfect hit, but he didn’t. Maybe not quite as self entitled as you thought.

“I’m...please can you help me.” Embarrassed, your eyes drifting to your beat up trainers, you mumbled the words resignedly. 

And he did. No judgment like you expected to roll off him in waves. Gently, he turned your shoulders and put pressure on your waist until you stood correctly. When you pulled the string back taught, Damian guided your fingers with soft calloused hands to the right place. When you let go, it hit the centre perfectly. 

“I can’t believe it!” Not thinking of the repercussions, you perched on your tiptoes and pressed a quick peck to his cheek. He stepped back abruptly, as if burned, cheeks flaming. Clemsie’s words hit you like a tonne of bricks, breaking through the excited wall you had built. The Wayne boy was always at arms distance she said because he disliked people entering his personal space. You understood, sometimes trauma was so deeply rooted that it could control a person for a long time, the ghost of a memory resurfacing enough to trigger an explosion of pain. Somehow, you were very sure with Damian Wayne it was trauma and not preference that made him the way he was. Your friendship was tentative - hanging together with fine, silk string it often felt like - and always had been since you had competed the homework. Now, you might have ruined it. 

Sheepishly, you turned to him. Damian was watching you with an expression that was not quite discernable. Thank you, Wayne. And...er...I’m sorry, that was spur of the moment and I should have asked first and God, sorry you probably-”

It was also only then that you realised half the class had stopped and was watching you. The Wayne boy’s face darkened considerably from the lightness that had been visible mere moments ago, and he snapped at them to mind their own business with steel in his voice that had them all scurrying back. Trying to convey how thankful you were was turning quickly into an anxious mouthful of mumbles. Fantastic.

The boy stepped further away from you, and somehow your heart sank. However he whispered just before he began to walk off. “Damian.” 

”Huh?” Confusion crossed your features as he began to walk away. Your cheeks reddened even more if it were humanely possible as you noticed how broad his shoulders were. God, you’d just kissed his bloody cheek, kissed Damian Wayne who you had been told had the easiest of tempers to ignite and the emotional range of a teaspoon. Damian Wayne who hated people breaching his space.

He turned around as he walked, and you glimpsed husband long, thick eyelashes. “Isn’t that what acquaintances address each other with? Their Christian names?”

There was something about it which was so familiar, too familiar. The hair on your arms raised as suddenly, you realised why his face was sticking in your mind. Bloody hell.


	4. Robin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The familiar thing about Damian Wayne becomes obvious. It makes stuff so much more complicated.

Everything clicked then with startling clarity, making you almost falter. God, it was so clear now, as if your eyes had been opened for the first time. 

That face, those features, you had seen before. And not at school. Last winter, on one of the coldest nights was when you had seen it, when you were at your most vulnerable.

_The street had been too dark, even for Gotham city. Then again, this was Gotham you lived in. It always revealed the true ways of human nature in one way or another. When darkness fell and the stars shone dimmed in the polluted sky, a different type of person would emerge from the cracks and the derelict buildings that were smattered around Gotham._

_It had been only a few minutes walk to the shop, always was, because there wasn’t enough milk to even make a cup of tea. It was inevitable that you had to go out to get some, but time has slipped by so fast that you had forgotten that night had fallen. Locking the door, it had only been when you turned around that you realised that it wasn’t light any more, not even the grey of the normal daytime._

_There had been something in the air just beyond reach, that night, which made the hairs on your arms raise at their own accord. Ignoring it was the only thing to do, otherwise the ideas would fester in your mind, imagination running wild. You clutched the flimsy bag closer to you in the frosted air, praying that your insolence and forgetfulness would not be the thing that killed you._

_Almost there, almost at the street that your house was on. The street lamp at the corner flickered for a second, making you tremble. Someone was watching you, their eyes following your every move. The scuff of the gravel under your trainers was too loud in the quiet. Come to think of it, Gotham was too quiet, as if it was holding its breath and waiting for something to happen._

_Something to happen to you._

_The smell was what hit you first. Alcohol, pungent and sickly sweet followed by the stench of sweat and dirt combined._

_When the figures stepped out from under the cover of shadow, swallowing became something that was no longer natural nor easy. They weren’t burly, like the stereotypical thug that you were warned about at school, that your mother and father told you about over the meagre dinner of old beans on stale toast that was a favourite of your parents when you were younger. Instead, the men before you were lanky, with sunken eyes that were not soulless but gleaming with a crazed sheen._

_You ran through_ _the puddles of ice cold water, splashing up your legs. The cold air was heavy in your lungs, burning, but you kept going. If you stopped, there was no doubt what would happen to you. They were gaining on you, footsteps loud against the crumbling tarmac._ _You weren’t fast but, God, you wished you were in that moment. No one wasn’t going to save you, you were going to die at the handshake of drunken thugs who would use you and then leave you in the cold._

_It was too late._

_The tackle had more power than you expected, landing in the gravel wet against your cheeks. They looked over you then, grinning as one man pulled you up by your hair. No scream escaped your mouth, because you were absolutely terrified. Terrified of what was about to happen for there was no way that you were coming out of this unscathed. All for a carton of milk. It could have waited. You could have waited but you were stupid._

_A time turner would have been so good right now._

_The tallest of them all with greasy brown hair landed a hit to your stomach that had you choking on air. Tears streamed down your face, bubbling with snot; the light blurring and warping in front of your eyes. God, you were going to have a panic attack. Their hands were all over you, groping, grasping touching everywhere. Skin crawling, you tried to scream but nothing came out apart form a wail._

_And then, something glinted bright in the night. There was no mistaking what it was, nor the person who held it tightly in their grasp, an air of ease and arrogance surrounding them._

_Robin._

_He was taller than you thought he would be - though it was simply what the Gotham Gazette said that you based this off of - and much broader, dark hood shrouding his face as he stood there in all his traffic light coloured glory. Red and green laced boots and long cape. It was him, in the flesh, mere feet form you. There was no denying the feeling of relief that washed over you, though it was short lived._

_A thug grabbed you by the throat, squeezing. “Look, it’s Robin. Where’s Batman, batbrat, hey?”_

_His fingers tightened white around the hilt of a sword as he stepped out. “Let go of the girl.”_

_Your head was spinning. It was like being on a rollercoaster, faster, faster. Panic was setting in as you moved, squirmed in his grip trying to get away. Breathing was getting harder, harder. If he didn’t let you go you were going to die._

_And then, Robin moved. He was all uninhibited gracefulness, moving as if each slash of the sword thing he had was an extra limb. Your eyes were fastened to him, for it was truly magical watching him work because it was like he was dancing. It came so easily, so true to him that the thugs didn’t stand a chance. One by one they fell like chess pieces around you, roses on the stage after a particularly moving theatre performance._

_“Let her go.”_

_The hand around your throat tightening as he let you go, talking to the ground as he battled Robin. It was fruitless, and the masked crusader put him down in effortless seconds. Gently, with calloused fingers he picked you up, setting you down and checking for any wounds._

_Leading you away from the scene, he never let go of your trembling hand, allowing you to walk to you house in silence. Robin was always a step behind, ready for when you faltered or needed encouragement. When you arrived at the tangled thicket that was the overgrown garden of your house, you felt his hand leave your shoulder._

_Turning to face his retreating figure, you yelled out a wobbly ‘thank you.’ Robin only turned, the profile of his face just visible under the heavy hood; sharp high cheekbones and a chiselled has and long, dark eyelashes._

_It_ was as if it were yesterday that you saw him. The gracefulness, everything. It made sense God, but how it did was an utter mystery. 

Damian Wayne, heir of Bruce Wayne the billionaire playboy, was Robin, the masked crusader of Gotham known world wide as the partner of Batman.

The similarities were too similar to be a coincidence. You had seen Robin on the sports field, the freedom of movement. Robin had been in the classroom with you, the strategic intelligence. Robin had even been in the hallways between classes, all arrogance and entitlement. And if that wasn’t the proof, then his high cheekbones and eyelashes were. There was no mistaking it, for that face had been part of your dreams for longer than you wanted to admit.

It had been there all along, hidden, but there. Damian Wayne had saved you last winter. He was Robin, the person that had haunted your waking thoughts since last winter, where you so easily could have died.

It explained the good aim, that was for sure. In fact, it kind of explained quite a lot. Well, that made things ever more complicated for you.

You now knew one of the best kept secrets, and the keeper of it was none the wiser.

how do you keep it safe?


End file.
